The True Halloween Horror: Hideously Sexist Costumes

OK—no one expects Ruth Bader Ginsburg look-alikes, or Eleanor Roosevelt drag, or saucy Madame Curies. But a visit to a trio of Halloween pop-up shops in downtown Manhattan—in this uncertain economy there appears to be hundreds of them—and a casual perusal of the Internet confirms the grim state of affairs: When it comes to Halloween, the vast preponderance of female costumes have apparently been conceived by a cabal consisting of Hugh Hefner, Larry Flynt, and the ghosts of Henry Miller and the Marquis de Sade—a coven of hoary, smirking, straight white guys whose idea of “sexy” dates back to the Second World War. (And in de Sade’s case, a lot further.)

You may search in vain for a normal, nice Alice in Wonderland costume, but that credulous schoolgirl is now Wonderland Delight Alice and Teacup Tease. Raggedy Anne has morphed into Gothic Rag Doll, jettisoning her homegrown charms in favor of an apron borrowed from a French chambermaid. Princess Leia has gone missing but turns out she has a doppelgänger—there is a Princess Leia Slave outfit that offers a bra top and a bikini bottom with a swath of naughty fabric extending from crotch to floor. A scanty Switch Witch actually lights up, bringing to mind Electra, the illuminated stripper in Gypsy. (“I’m electrifying, and I’m not even tryin’,” she trilled.) But do remember, Electra got paid for her efforts, she didn’t wire up just to stumble around a drunken frat party. From pirates to vampires, from the Tin Man to Red Riding Hood to Mother Superior, every conceivable subject matter has been run through this same dopey, salacious mill—not even SpongeBob is safe, having transmogrified into SpongeBabe. (Things move fast in the costume world just this morning comes news of a Sexy Ebola Containment Suit, complete with face shield and goggles, but judging by the expanses of bare flesh, clearly not CDC-approved.)​

The names of the companies providing these packaged porno promotions could have be lifted from a corny soft-core novella: major players include Leg Avenue, Dreamgirl, and Secret Wishes. One business, a purveyor of such items as Ms. Militant Sexy Soldier and Breathtaking Build Sexy Skeleton, drops any pretense of subtlety and calls itself Forplay.

Maybe all this wouldn’t be so disturbing, so repulsive, if the men’s side of the store offered equally provocative ensembles. But emphatically no—whether a fellow chooses to be a rabbi or a rabbit, Fred Flintstone, or feisty firefighter, he will be modestly covered from neck to ankle. Even Cell Block Psycho has not ripped off his stripes in a manic episode.

If you think that none of this comes into play until the age of informed consent, you are spectacularly incorrect. A costume line not ashamed to call itself Wicked Innocence offers, in girls’ sizes, such items as the Night Wing Bat, which consists of a tiny tutu and a bustier top trimmed with S&M-ish buckles. And Alice (her again) is here too, with abbreviated hem and enough studied coyness to feed the most banal illegal reveries.

Young males, no surprise, are thoroughly exempt from the pressure to be alluring while they are still in elementary school. In boyland, you can dress like Chucky or a hot dog, Spiderman or a zombie hunter, and be assured that no one is ogling your pre-pubescent physique. If your female classmates are apparently going to grow up to be spooky strumpets, a rather different future awaits these guys—in fact, a website called Costume Box has, for a six-month-old Master of the Universe, a “Baby Business” costume that features a miniature fedora hat and a jumpsuit printed with suit coat, tie, and handkerchief (it snaps for easy diaper change). You could theoretically put an infant girl in this get-up as well, but no one would.

But perhaps the starkest example of this sordid, one-sided bacchanalia, this annual autumnal jiggle show, is the way in which identical scenarios (a lot of them deeply racist, but that’s another story) breaks down along gender lines. The wildly politically incorrect Indian Girl is barely covered by her fringy frock (although she has been provided with a tomahawk to fend off unwanted advances) while her consort, Chief Long Arrow, is outfitted for the North Dakota plains. And the Gamblin’ Man, that swaggering hustler of the imaginary Wild West, is fully cloaked in fake brocade vest and dickey, while the Cowgirl Sheriff on his arm, who in real life may be a corporate lawyer! a physician! a Rhodes Scholar! is, like so many of her hapless sisters, relegated to spending October 31 shivering, half-clothed, the weary victim of an antediluvian male fantasy, as stale and moldy as a 50-year-old copy of Playboy magazine flapping sadly in the breeze.